Poet Nicholson, old Ebor's darling bard

Poet Nicholson, old Ebor's darling bard, Accept from me at least one tributary line; Yet how much more should be thy just reward, Than any wild unpolished song of mine.

No monument in marble can I raise, Or sculptured bust in honour of thy name; But humbly try to celebrate thy praise, And give applause that thou shouldst duly claim.

All hail, the songsters that awake the morn, And soothe the soul with wild melodious strains; All hail, the rocks that Bingley hills adorn, Beneath whose shades wild Nature's grandeur reigns.

From off yon rock that rears its head so high, And overlooks the crooked river Aire; While musing Nature's works full meet the eye, The envied game, the lark and timid hare.

In Goitstock Falls, and rugged Marley's hill, In Bingley's grand and quiet sequestered dale, Each silvery stream, each dike or rippled rill, I see thy haunt and read thy "Poacher's Tale."

So, Homer-like, thy harp was wont to tune Thy native vale in glorious days of old, Whose maidens fair in virtuous beauty shone— Her sages and her heroes great and bold.

No flattering baseness could employ thy mind, The free-born muse detests that servile part: In simple lore thy self-taught lay I find More grandeur far than all the gloss of art.

Though small regard be paid to worth so rare, And humble worth unheeded pass along; Ages to come will sing the "Yale of Aire," Her Nicholson and his historic song.

[Picture: Picture of a tree]